


Behind the Clouds

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade Summer Challenge Fic Dump [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Frottage, M/M, Motels, Multiple Orgasms, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Case, Road Trips, Tourism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 04:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4249395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They could go anywhere, do anything they wanted. He eyes the interstates—Route One to Key West, Pacific Coast Highway, Route 66, Interstate 80—and picks one out of the lineup, finger digging into Amarillo. “You wanna do a road trip, then we’re goin’ full Americana.”</p><p>Castiel smiles, a real one this time, and closes the McNally on the table. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Clouds

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt: Road Trip**

Castiel is in the library when Dean finds him, a collection of aged maps spread across one of the tables in the pale fluorescent light and a Rand McNally on top of a stack of atlases, a red pen in one hand, the cap between full lips, teeth worrying the stem. He’s concentrating on something, blue eyes traveling the directions he’s drawn for himself, spanning interstates and side streets, stretching in every direction possible. New York City, Atlanta, Key West, the Texas Panhandle, Malibu, Seattle, all linked by red lines to Lebanon, stickers dotting particular cities on the trails he’s mapped. Albuquerque, Nashville, Reno, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Orlando—he’s really thought this through.

“How long’ve you been up?” Dean drawls, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and adjusting the belt of his robe, bare feet padding across the floor. He needs coffee, needs to wake up before he can take in exactly what Castiel has planned. He finds a mug and the pot still sitting in the machine; it’s lukewarm, but it’ll do for now.

“You mentioned something about a vacation a few weeks ago,” Castiel says to no one in particular when Dean reenters the room, tapping his pen on the table, running his finger over Route 66 from Chicago to Santa Monica. There’s an idea. “I found a few maps in storage and started thinking.”

“Care to share with the class?” Dean sits across from him at the table, snatching away one of the smaller maps of the southwestern mainland and reading the hieroglyphic scrawl of Castiel’s handwriting, several cities circled through New Mexico and Arizona, Texas and Oklahoma, all along the now-decrepit strip of highway once known as one of the shining examples of American infrastructure. “You know these maps are like… _ancient_ , right?”

“The McNally is up to date.” Castiel takes the cap from his lips and pushes the atlas towards him, the pages earmarked with multicolored Post-It notes and jammed with printed papers, all with different ghost towns and roadside oddities. Has he _slept_? “I was wondering if you wanted to… get away, for a while.” Dean looks up at him and catches the sleeplessness in his eyes, dark bags more pronounced now than ever. He’s been having nightmares again, probably. “Since Sam’s in Sioux Falls with Jody and Claire for the month, and you’re—.”

“Here,” Dean affirms. Castiel nods his assent and looks back to his maps, exhaling through his nose. “Don’t beat around the bush, Cas. If you got somethin’ to say, just spill it, alright?”

Castiel recaps his pen and sets it to the side, palming his eyes. “I think I’m developing cabin fever.”

“You and me both, man.” Dean drinks from his mug and winces at the chill; he needs the caffeine, though. Needs to be conscious enough to make a decision, especially if it involves him leaving the bunker for a prolonged period. “So, what’re you thinkin’?”

“How do you feel about a road trip?”

It should be appealing to him, really. But after travelling for majority of his life, hopping between motels and sleeping in the back of the Impala or whatever other hunk of scrap he managed for the night, he doesn’t think he can take it for much longer. He’s getting older now, pushing his late thirties with a crick in his back every time he crawls out of bed and a knee that pops out of joint every so often. Sleeping on anything other than his own mattress is entirely unappealing; his neck aches at the thought.

“Startin’ to wonder if that’s such a good idea,” Dean mumbles, scratching the back of his head. “It’s been nice just… staying here, for a while. Not really havin’ anything to do, goin’ into town whenever we feel like. And we got a _hell_ of rooftop deck, man. What else could I want?”

Castiel looks at him, just _looks_ with his head cocked at an angle, fingers tapping the multitude of papers in his reach. “You know that’s not true,” he says after a blink.

Dean softens at that, keeping his head lowered to fight off the blush creeping up his neck. “So, what, you askin’ me to get outta here ‘cause you’re about to start climbin’ the walls?”

“I think we both need some time away from here. Somewhere with actual sunlight and not—,” Castiel gestures to the lights hanging over their heads and the lamps on the tables, “—this.”

Dean nods with hesitance, fingers tracing the rim of his coffee mug, almost empty and cold, bland. At least he can think, now. “…As long as I don't gotta kill something, I’m fine.” He watches Castiel’s face brighten, a smile upticking his lips, just enough to make his heart skitter. It shouldn't make him hurt to see Castiel so happy. “C’mon man, it’s just a trip…”

“No, but it’s something you _want_.” Castiel reaches to the middle of the table and taps his nail against the star marked Lebanon at the center the largest of the maps and trails it over the multitude of red-mapped routes reaching to every coast, even to Mexico and Canada. “Where do you want to go?”

He has choices. He can actually go places without the Mark searing a hole into his skin, without fear that he might snap and drive the Impala into a pole. Without the constant nightmares of plunging a knife into Castiel’s chest and putting the light out of his eyes forever. He’s human now—they both are, through circumstances he still can’t quite remember, even two months later. Dean hasn’t picked up any sort of weapon in three weeks, when their last hunt ended in success, but the laceration to Castiel’s side left him emotionally drained and unreasonably protective over his friend, barely letting him out of his sight until the stitches were removed and Castiel had his first major battle scar, eerily reminiscent to one of his own, stretching down his ribcage and ending at his hip. Where that one came from, he doesn’t know; it’s been so long.

They could go anywhere, do anything they wanted. He eyes the interstates—Route One to Key West, Pacific Coast Highway, Route 66, Interstate 80—and picks one out of the lineup, finger digging into Amarillo. “You wanna do a road trip, then we’re goin’ full Americana.”

Castiel smiles, a real one this time, and closes the McNally on the table. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”

 

_Dreamhouse Motel  
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma_

Out of all the days in the year they could have traveled, they chose to spend the night on the day that every art festival in Oklahoma decided to converge into one city at the same time, packing streets with cars and filling up every hotel room except for one. Said room sits near the city limits in a run-down motel that’s seen better days, the light from the blinking blue-and-pink sign in the courtyard dyeing the worn asphalt odd colors under the blackened southwestern sky. Cars roar by on the four-lane outside the parking lot, oblivious of the situation Dean’s been roped into.

“I’m sorry sir, but there’s only one room available, and it’s a single,” the clerk tells him around nine that night. The five hours between Lebanon and Oklahoma City passed without incident, the pair stopping in Wichita for a late lunch before converging with tourists and locals after passing the city limits, leaving them with no choice but to park and find a place to stay for the night. Not that either particularly minded—Castiel has a tendency to dawdle around until noon if there aren’t plans, and since Sam left the week before, Dean’s been asleep more often than not, making up for the restless nights pre-Mark, before Castiel had his ingenious plan that left him feeling like a hollow shell for the first few weeks.

Part of him now wishes that hollowness would come back. He stares at the desk clerk like she’s lost her mind and fidgets with the pocket of his jeans, ignoring the heat flaming in his cheeks and Castiel hunting through the pamphlet rack by the door for anything he can find on Route 66. “Wh—Are you sure?” Dean asks, fighting to steady his voice. There is _no_ way he’s sleeping in the same bed as _Cas_ ; he’d rather take the couch given the chance. But from the way his back aches, he won’t be able to sleep tomorrow if there he can’t sleep on _something_ resembling a mattress, not a horrid pile of springs encased in fading upholstery.

The place is cheap, too, only thirty-five dollars a night, and the cash from last month’s round at the bar is burning a hole in his wallet. They can get by on this if they stick to the plan, he figures—lower end motels, diners whenever they see one and fast food when they’re out of the way, and then use the remainder once they get to Santa Monica. They’ll just sleep in the car on the way back, or use whatever credit cards Dean has at his disposal that haven't been flagged just yet. It’s a great plan—if only there was another _bed_.

“That’s our last room for the night,” the woman nods again, taking out a marked notepad and pushing it over to him, citing how much he owes and where to put his name and permanent place of residence. “We have a complimentary breakfast in the front office in the morning, if you’re still interested?”

 _At least there’s food_ , he thinks, and hands over the cash and signs both his and Castiel’s—Castiel Winchester’s—names to the form, and the approximate address of the bunker. Why did they need this, anyway? It’s not like they plan to send him flyers— _Come back to our hole in the wall motel, boys_!—did they?

Key fob in hand and Castiel with an armful of pamphlets, he opens the door to room twenty-one, revealing a hideously painted and equally tackily decorated single room, outfitted with a simple dresser, side table, a television that never made it out of the sixties, an aged coffee machine and a faux-oak paneled mini fridge stocked with water and tiny bottles of liquor. Not that he drinks much nowadays, anyway. Probably something to do with the reset to his system or Sam locking away all the good scotch so he can’t get his hands on it. Whatever it is, he’s grateful.

Castiel carries their duffels in and locks the door behind him, setting them beside the bed. Dean’s already sprawled out on his stomach on the side nearest the door, murmuring something about needing a shower or a massage, but making no move to get up. Castiel doesn't either, apparently, just flopping down opposite him once his tennis shoes are off and groaning about a crick in his neck, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I take it you’re embarrassed about sharing a bed with me,” Castiel remarks, words slurred with exhaustion. Finding a motel with a vacancy had been near impossible; still, despite the atrocious décor and the musty sheets, it’s a place to lay their head.

“More concentrated on tryin’ not to pass out,” Dean muffles through the pillow, reaching out to touch the headboard, fingers sliding down the worn surface. “You gonna shower or should I go first?”

“We could save water if we showered together,” Castiel says, nonchalant. The thought leaves Dean blanching, jerking upright so fast he nearly falls off the bed. Castiel watches him with disinterest, eyes hooded, bleary.

“Dude,” Dean sputters, leaning on his elbows. Castiel isn’t even fazed, half asleep on the sheets, barely paying attention. “You serious right now?”

“I think it may be the sleeplessness talking,” his friend offers through a yawn. “I’ll go first. You need to rest more than I do.”

He wants to fight Castiel on it, tell him that he just spent majority of existence as an Angel—if he wanted to sleep, then he had every right to. Instead, he watches his friend drag himself up off the mattress and trudge to the bathroom door, disappearing behind it. Dean falls asleep to the sound of water running in the shower and a faint light beneath the door.

 

_Groom, Texas  
Britten Leaning Water Tower_

“I don’t know what’s better, this thing or that giant flashy cross they got down the street,” Dean remarks with a wave. At his side, Castiel shakes his head, hands in his pockets as they look up at the water tower a few dozen feet to their front, white paint faded with the southern sun, the red support beams long-since patinated and weathering the longer the days go on. Still, it stands proud at its eighty-degree lean, the mid afternoon sun blinding as they stand before it, the once bright blue of Britten USA painted across the front gleaming in the sweltering heat of the day.

Not _nearly_ as gaudy as that newer construction down the road. Even at a distance, it’s too bright to look at and takes up too much of the skyline—Castiel will want to go, surely. Dean’s mildly curious himself, if anything to see what kind of people would build such an enormous landmark for the sake of showing off how much money they had.

The tower isn’t any better, considering it was used as a marketing advertisement for a truck stop that doesn't even exist anymore. Or, at least that’s what one of Castiel’s numerous booklets says. They really need to stop pulling over at _every_ rest stop or tourist location there is—it’s taken them six hours to make a regularly three hour drive. But this is what they’re supposed to be doing, isn’t it? Castiel getting him out of the bunker and doing absolutely mundane things on the road, visiting tourist spots and weird abandoned towns, anything to keep him occupied instead of letting him climb the walls in his boredom or start wanting to hunt again. It’s nice, in a weird way. He can hang out with his best friend all day in the front seat of his Baby and not have to risk him running off somewhere, never to be seen again.

Well, almost. Castiel may not be an Angel anymore, but he still manages to meander off in the weirdest directions. Like, right now—he’s about ten feet from the base of the leaning tower leg and getting closer, fading further out of sight. “Hey!” Dean calls out to him, Castiel stopping his walk and turning around in the distance, hands on his hips. He’s probably pouting. Dean catches up to him after a brisk run through the unplowed field, standing with his hands on his knees while Castiel examines the foot of the structure, looking oddly scientific about it. “Dude, you can’t just run _off_ like that.”

“I wasn't running,” Castiel offers in reply, walking under the water tower and looking directly up at the slanted underside. “You just weren’t paying attention. Is the heat getting to you?”

 _It’s not the heat that's getting to me_. If Castiel would just stay _still_ for five seconds, maybe Dean wouldn't be so antsy. But Castiel is a live wire, everywhere at once and with more energy than should be allowed. “You got me runnin’ circles today,” Dean pants, eventually righting himself.

By then, Castiel is on the other side of the tower, apparently awestruck. He rarely looks like this, completely enrapt with something that didn't have to do with Heaven or Hell or whatever he found in the bunker that week. No, this time, it’s a water tower in the middle of nowhere Texas. “This structure’s architecture is… amazing,” he says, wondrous. “That its creator had the mind to successfully force its lean without having it collapse on itself…”

“Dude, it’s just…” _A water tower_ , he wants to say. But Castiel looked so pleased, like even after all his years on earth, humanity is still astounding him in every way. Dean holds off instead, thumbs shoved in his jean pockets, content to watch Castiel wander the structure until he gets bored—which doesn't take more than another five minutes. “You got your fill?” Dean asks once Castiel is standing at his side, wiping the sweat beading at the back of his neck.

Castiel nods and wipes his hands on his pants, eyes now drawn to the obnoxious cross down the highway. “What about there?”

Of _course_. Dean huffs out a laugh and bows his head, hiding his smile. “C’mon, I think we still got some time before the sun _completely_ roasts us.”

Castiel rolls his eyes without retort.

 

_Amarillo, Texas  
Cowboy Motel_

“I don’t think I’ve ever eaten that much food in my _life_.”

Amarillo is alive at night, filled with throngs of people hitting up bars or steakhouses, some to local clubs, while tourists attempt to sleep off the day’s drive in solitude. They arrived three hours earlier just as the five o’clock hour rolled around and after Castiel suggested they visit Cadillac Ranch and Palo Duro Canyon before they checked in, just as the heat hit its peak and the air conditioning was threatening to seize in the Impala. Whose great idea was this, again?

After an hour of lazing around in their room—wood paneled in every way imaginable with a fitting brown-and-black bedspread—and Dean pacing because _single bed, again_ , Castiel made the decision to head out for food. Which wasn't a bad idea in itself, until Dean saw just _where_ his next pamphlet had led them.

The Big Texan Steak Ranch, home of the seventy-two ounce steak challenge. Dean may have had some crazy thoughts in his life, but death by six pounds of grilled cow wasn't one of them. Not exactly the cheapest menu on earth either, but they made it through their meal—a prime rib he would _almost_ bet his life on—without any of the waiters becoming suspicious of just whose credit card he was using or his identity. At least they would be gone and out of the city limits by the time someone checked its authenticity. That was always what they needed, the cops busting down their door for forging payment. At last the steak was worth it.

Coming back to a broken air conditioner, though, isn’t. “You’ve _gotta_ be _kidding_ me,” Dean moans, banging on the aging appliance in the corner of the room with the hope that it’ll miraculously revive. No such luck. It’s nearing nine and the temperature is still burning hot in the nineties, and their room somewhere near one hundred. He contemplates sleeping in the back of the Impala just to escape the heat, but thinks better of it—Baby’s had a hard enough day as it is.

They all have, considering. Castiel is passed out on the far side of their bed, shoes still on his feet and arms reaching up to the slatted headboard with the giant star at the top, completely oblivious to the heat or the fact that he’s still wearing _clothes_. Give him an hour, Dean thinks. Even _he_ can’t sleep in this heat, still managing to somehow be more oppressive than it was outside with the humidity and impending storms on the horizon. No doubt the thunder will be rolling in any minute. But even then, it won’t do much to quell the hellscape that has become his room.

He opts for the coldest shower he can manage and stays under the spray for far too long, hoping the chill will stay in his veins for as long as he needs. Just knowing Castiel is out there and that they're stuck in the same bed for the second night in a row is enough to set his blood boiling, betraying every inherent instinct he has. Apparently his dick is a traitor.

Which certainly doesn't help things when he walks into the room afterwards in nothing but a towel, only to find Castiel now standing with his back to him on the other side of the room, tugging his shirt over his shoulders and tossing it to the side, baring every inch of skin he could above his waist. Dean should stop him, he knows—pull the ‘no sleeping naked’ card and be done with it, or sleep in the car, whichever comes first. Instead he gapes and watches Castiel go for the fly of his jeans, sliding them down his hips along with his boxers, leaving him bare.

And Dean _way_ more than hard under his towel.

Dean’s still staring when Castiel turns, eyes still bleary from his interrupted sleep when he drops on top of the sheets, stretching languidly on his back and curling his toes, completely oblivious to Dean just _standing_ there trying to snap his jaw closed. He isn’t doing it intentionally, right? … _Right_? “You’re staring,” Castiel says, and _yes_ , it’s all on purpose. He’s flaunting himself, he _has_ to be; there’s no other reason for his cock to be half hard then, is it? It’s just sitting there in the notch of his hip, _mocking_ him. _Begging_ him to reach out and touch, mouth a line down that vein and just— _shut up, shut up_! “You should tell the maintenance staff about the air conditioner.”

 _Not if it stops me from looking at you_. “We’re gonna be outta here tomorrow anyway, don’t really think it matters.” Dean shrugs off the look Castiel gives him, going for his duffel— _anything_ to take his mind off the fact that Castiel is naked and completely approachable.

He hears Castiel sit up behind him, the sheets rustling. A set of feet pad across the carpeted floor and a pair of arms slip around his waist, a chin propped up on his shoulder when he stands, hands sliding under the rim of his towel. A mixture of terror and anticipation seizes in his gut at the first touch of Castiel’s lips to his nape, leading a small trail up his neck to his ear. He can’t deny the shiver that runs up his spine when that mouth closes around his earlobe, sucking gently, tongue tracing the shell once he’s done.

He should push him away—his cock says otherwise, the front of his towel embarrassingly tented with his friend’s continued ministrations, until it drops and they’re both stark naked. It’s only then that Dean stops him, palming over Castiel’s hands and pushing them away, not before a moan rips from his throat, deafening in the scant space between them. “ _Cas_ —you gotta—not _here_.”

Castiel pauses and pulls back, enough for Dean to spin around and face him, struggling with everything in his power to not look down. _Not_ to see how close their dicks are from touching, how much he wants to shove Castiel down on the bed and just go to town. That’s not what they’re here for—they’re on vacation, they’re not supposed to be boinking each other’s brains out whenever they get the chance. They’re supposed to take in the sights and sounds of the scenery, and he is _not_ going to reach out to jack Castiel in his fist until he comes so hard he leaves tiny nail prints imbedded into his shoulders.

No—they’re going to talk about this. Preferably when they’re in a better state of mind and not fueled by hormones and a nearly severed line of tension he didn't even recognize they _had_. “Did I do something wrong?” Castiel asks, voice a bit firmer now, thumbs now rubbing small circles into Dean’s hips from where he’s still holding on, soothing. “Did—.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Dean breathes, shaking his head. He didn’t; it was probably a long time coming, anyway. “It’s—It’s new,” he says. He bows his head and avoids the way Castiel looks at him, finding himself falling into the hand that cups his cheek; such a small action shouldn't be so calming. Shouldn't make him feel like it’s everything he needs. “The… thing with the car, and the… being _alone_ —.”

“You’re nervous.”

Dean nods—it’s the closest thing to an excuse he has, even if he won’t say it out loud. He’s terrified; never in his life has he gotten what he wanted. Somehow it’s always ended in blood and gore, death and violence. With the Mark, he struggled until the brink of his own death, until Castiel risked the inevitable and dragged him back out of the fire, leaving them both terribly human and vulnerable. What if it happens again? What if something stupid happens and he dies—what if Castiel goes first? He’s not immortal anymore; he can’t fly through space and time, can’t heal with just a touch.

Yet he can love, and that scares Dean. More than anything in the world, the fact that he is _loved_. And Castiel hasn't told him—Dean knows. Castiel doesn't have to say anything; he never does for Dean to get the message, even if it takes an eternity for him to accept it.

 _He loves me_ , Dean tells himself before ducking his head and pulling Castiel in for a kiss, cupping his face in his hands and groaning when Castiel returns the favor, fingers buried in his hair and tugging between each kiss, until he finds himself being pulled across the room and then shoved onto the bed, the former Angel crawling over top of him and closing the gap between their bodies.

Dean whimpers through it, clinging tight to Castiel’s back as their hips rut together in a shuddering rhythm, trading sloppy kisses that dissolve into moans the longer they go, until Dean’s practically clutching at his ass and driving Castiel down harder, groaning with the way their cocks drool steadily between them, until he can feel his balls draw up tight. Whatever is left of his inhibitions ran out the door five minutes ago, the small part of him that should tell Castiel to stop, to fuck off to the other side of the bed and leave him be. Instead, Dean captures his lips in final kiss and comes, hard, head thrown back with the intensity. Castiel follows after with a final few thrusts, silent through his orgasm until they’re both sprawled out on the bed, Castiel’s weight pinning him to the sheets.

And he can’t find it in him to care less, not when Castiel keeps kissing his neck and running his hands through his hair, shoving back the sweaty strands and laving small pecks across his face, nose, lips. “Will you take me up on that shower _now_?” his friend pants. In the pale light of the room, Castiel looks beautiful, lips shiny and swollen from kisses, sweat beading at his hairline, a stray drop streaking down his face to drip onto Dean’s cheek.

Dean nods in reply, and with another kiss, he pushes Castiel into the sheets and rolls off the bed. “Get your ass in here, then.”

_Glenrio, Texas  
Ghost Town_

Sam calls them with a case the next morning, apparently ignorant to the fact that it’s barely five-thirty. Dean groans and throws his hand over to the side table, having half the mind to smash the screen before he stops himself. He can’t afford a new phone right now, not with his budget. Castiel is half sprawled across him with his morning wood poking his hip when he finally picks up the phone, placing it to his ear with a huff. “This better be good.”

It’s nothing more than a salt and burn, much to his irritation. Cars along the Texas and New Mexico border have been inexplicably losing power along a certain stretch of I-40 and leaving them stranded until a wrecker comes, usually at midnight and _well_ out of the way of passersby. It wouldn't have been so much of an issue if someone hadn’t _died_ in the last week, their body found in the front seat of the car with their head smashed through the driver’s side window. No sulfur, nothing to suggest foul play other than the fact that ten cars have suffered the same fate over the past two months, all in the same area.

Bodies are where they draw the line, though.

He promptly falls back asleep after the call and wakes three hours later to the smell of coffee, Castiel standing by the coffee machine in his birthday suit, humming something that sounds oddly like that annoying pop tune they heard through the radio speaker the day before. Of _course_ he would like that, the idiot. Dean lays there, content to stare at his friend for a long minute, at the firmness of his thighs and even firmer ass, the tight lines of his back and shoulders, and feels himself hardening again despite himself. They need to leave soon, get on the road to Glenrio before traffic picks up and they’re spotted in broad daylight. Are there any graveyards there, anyway?

Castiel pours him coffee in one of the cheap plastic cups on the counter while Dean discusses the case and his reluctance to pursue it in the first place. But Sam had been adamant; apparently he doesn't have enough to do in Sioux Falls and they were closer, whatever that means. He downs the cup to its last dregs and trashes it in the wastebasket, trying to find the willpower to dress himself and leave the room. It’s nice here; the temperature is cooler than the night before, and after his third shower in twelve hours, he can’t find it in him to want to leave.

Still, they need to—they can’t exactly hole up in a motel in the middle of Texas forever. He pulls on a fresh pair of jeans and packs his bag again, halfheartedly fighting off Castiel as he tries to drag him back into bed, unwilling to give up the room just yet. “C’mon,” Dean mumbles when he finally gives, allowing himself to be manhandled onto his back and trading kisses for the second time that morning. “C’mon, we gotta get _up_.”

“We’re not supposed to be hunting,” Castiel complains. Dean huffs a laugh and cards his fingers through Castiel’s hair, trailing them down to press over his shirt, heart thrumming an excited rhythm against his palm. “Doesn't your brother have anything better to do?”

“You’d think that, wouldn't you?” Sighing, Dean hauls himself up off the bed, leaving Castiel to groan in acceptance.

They leave the motel office at five before ten and hit the road shortly after, snagging more than enough muffins from the breakfast bar than probably allowed and stuffing them in a plastic bag between them. If they dispatched the spirit like expected, they could make it to Gallup by nightfall, depending on if Castiel wanted to stop anywhere again. Out of all the pamphlets stuffed in the foot well and side pockets and in the visors, nothing on this particular stretch interested him, save for whatever Red Rock State Park was and the tramway in Albuquerque. Out of all the things for Castiel to take a human interest in, it’s incredible heights, especially canyons. It took Dean an hour to get him away from the ledge of Palo Duro, after which Castiel claimed he was meditating. It looked more like a nap, to him.

Fifty minutes after their departure, they pull off Interstate 40 at the Texas and New Mexico border, dust kicking up behind their tires along the derelict exit ramp, parking next to what remains of a gas station, white paint scraping off the edges, pumps long since removed. It’s oddly familiar, Dean muses, reminiscing to a place hundreds of miles away where he dragged himself from a six-foot hole in the ground and wandered to the nearest service station available. From the look on Castiel’s face, he remembers too; they don’t speak a word of it.

The one shed to the left of the building is empty, gutted of its contents in what looks to be a hurry, all of its windows shattered from the inside. There’s no sulfur from what he can see, no reason to believe anything other than a tornado happened here, or just sheer neglect by the former residents and highway management. Across the road, the abandoned town of Glenrio sits, lost somewhere beyond the line of dead trees and endless miles of earth. It’s a miracle no one dies out here—with the heat, if the Impala broke down, they probably would.

“There’s nothing here,” Castiel states as he walks out of the remnants of the gas station, a wooden crate with six Coke bottles inside in his right hand. “If the spirit is anywhere, it would probably be in town.”

Dean agrees, eyes still on the box. “You gonna drink those?” he asks, and Castiel shakes his head.

“They’re _flat_ , Dean,” he says; Dean rolls his eyes at the seriousness of his voice. He knows that—who in their right mind would even try to drink however-many decades old Coke? “We would most likely die—.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Just,” Dean points to the back seat, “throw ‘em in there, we’ll figure out somethin’ to do with ‘em.”

Across the interstate and an even more concerning bridge, Glenrio sits in its regular state of disrepair, collecting dust on the remaining roofs and walls of the scant few businesses, the sign in front of a motel mostly degraded by storms and desert winds, panels scattered in the grass with vines grown over them, reclaiming them to the earth. The entire town needs to be bulldozed, but then again, Dean supposes, that would take away the history of it. Cities all over the mother road fared the same fate when the interstate was built, leaving them to ruin within years. From the looks of it, this place never got much business, anyway.

Castiel is the first to exit the Impala once they park next to a rusted-out Thunderbird, Dean following close behind with a crowbar in hand, in the off chance Castiel is right and the spirit actually _is_ in the town and not where they originally planned. The murder hadn’t taken place there, anyway—according to Sam, the guy was killed in the parking lot of the motel, where he shouldn't have been in the first place. “Sure picked a fucked up place to lure him,” Dean comments to no one, Castiel already in the parking lot and peeking into each room, both hands on his shotgun. Dean catches up to him outside room number eight; there’s nothing of spectacular interest in there, just a rotted out mattress and moth-eaten blinds in the windows, the dressers thoroughly ransacked and filled with God knows what—rats, lizards, whatever else lives in the desert. He doesn't want to know.

Though for a split second out of the corner of his eye, after he turns away from the room to investigate another, he sees it—the familiar shape of a human sitting on the corner, back to the both of them, stone still. He calls Castiel back by grabbing his bicep, yanking him towards the door, shotgun readied. For several seconds they stand in watch, Dean’s heart in his throat with the knowledge that something deadly lies in wait for the, and that Castiel’s wrist is now in his hand, pulse rapid beneath his fingertips. It’s not healthy, from what he can tell.

Despite his stoicism, without even having to look at Castiel, he knows Castiel is afraid. Terrified of what lurks beyond, of what pain it can inflict. Of the possibility of death around every corner.

This time, death comes in the form of an ornery old man with no eyes and an apparent vendetta against anyone with a weapon. He goes for Dean first, apparating and knocking him across the face before he can even lift his tire iron, skidding across the buckled sidewalk and coming to a stop in a thicket. Rolling over, he watches Castiel fire and scatter the spirit with a blast, ensuring his presence is temporarily misplaced before he runs to Dean and helps him to his feet. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows he’s bleeding, a cut running the length of his eyebrow, red dripping idly into his eye.

“We gotta find the bones,” Dean says, and they run.

The motel offers up no sign of a body, but even then, they know the man is watching, lurking somewhere, waiting for them to make one false move. The diner turns up nothing but old plates and broken-down tables, and the post office next door still has packages sitting on the table, waiting for a truck that will never come. Dean has half the mind to take them—maybe once they finish up, he’ll snatch them off the counter and shove them in the trunk. There has to be something valuable in there, right?

He’s not in the house down the side street or the business at the end of town—instead, they find him in a dilapidated water tower near the front, tangled up in a mass of vines, his bones hanging from tree limbs. Not the greatest hiding place for a body, but whoever did the deed obviously got away with it. Ignoring his wound, Dean gathers kindling from the rotting roof beams and whatever remains of the tower with Castiel, kicking the bones scattered across the ground atop a pile of scraps.

Castiel senses movement before Dean can even get the lighter out of his pocket, but fails to protect himself in time. He’s flung a few feet across the yard into the side of a rusted out Chevy truck, collapsing into a heap with his face in the dirt. _He’s dead_ , is Dean’s first thought; he stands and watches with frozen veins, fearing the worst. He should move—get Castiel out of here, get as far away as they possibly can. But the spirit continues to advance on him, gasping haggard breaths in the dry air, all of it boiling against his skin.

He drops the lighter, and the water tower goes up in flames.

There’s no extravagant theatrical show with it, no fire effects or a senseless blaze, no pathetic wails for mercy—one moment he exists as a figment of his former self, and the next, there’s empty air and the stretch of desert beyond where he once presided. A tumbleweed rolls past in observance, off to some destination in the noontime sun.

In the meantime, Castiel is passed out and likely bleeding into the dirt. Dean rushes over once the threat has passed and the water tower continues to smolder, most likely attracting attention from whoever drives by; he can’t be bothered to care. “C’mon,” he flips Castiel over and hisses, tapping his cheek, sliding his thumb down to check his pulse. _Still there_. “C’mon, I know you’re breathin’.” No answer. “Cas, _please_.”

For the briefest of seconds, he looks down at Castiel’s body propped up in his arms, the gash stretching across his forehead bleeding thick streams across his face and into his hairline, dyeing his ear and the ground and everything in between. He’s not conscious, nowhere near it; probably concussed, if he ever wakes up. This is it—Dean’s done it, he’s finally let his guard down and someone died on his watch. Someone he cared for, the _one person_ he never wanted to let out of his sight, in fear of losing them in one way or another. He didn’t expect anything less.

Dean’s eyes well to the brim; he can’t shed them now, not when he has a job to do. If Castiel’s heart stops, he’ll have to carry him off to the Impala, take him back to the bunker and explain to Sam that he can’t be trusted, even without the Mark. He’s too much of a liability, too volatile, even when all he wants to do is help. He can’t be trusted to exist. If he can’t save Castiel, then what else matters?

If it weren’t for the soft breaths being panted onto his palm, Dean would have thought him dead, or at least on death’s door. Yet Castiel’s heart continues to beat a steady rhythm under his hand, growing stronger as the seconds go on, until those familiar blue eyes open again and he gasps, loud and long, clutching at the wound on his head.

“You son of a _bitch_ ,” Dean grouses, inextinguishable relief washing over him, and he pulls Castiel up into his arms, Castiel groaning a complaint that sounds like ‘I have no mother.’ He shouldn’t laugh as much as he does. There’s humor in his tears now, anguish averted but still heavy in his heart. He doesn't want to let go—never. “Thought you were dead.”

Castiel muffles a laugh into his shoulder and sighs, clutching him back just as tight. “I’d be very surprised if I would die that easily,” he replies, rough.

 _But that’s how it’s gonna happen_ , Dean supplies in his head, face pressed to Castiel’s neck. _You’re gonna fall down the stairs or shoot yourself and I’m not gonna be able to fix you_.

He opts to leave the statement unsaid and pats Castiel’s back, ignoring the tremor in his fingers. “Let’s find the next town,” Dean offers, trying to smile. He fails miserably; Castiel kisses him in compromise, obviously just as shaken. “Gotta stitch your head up or your brain’s gonna fall out.”

Castiel takes a second to look morbidly terrified until realization dawns. Dean laughs and clutches his arm, helping him upright. “Did you at least destroy it?” Castiel asks.

Dean thumbs to the burning remnants of the water tower, trying his best to fake composure. “Pretty sure.”

 

_Tucumcari, New Mexico  
Blue Swallow Motel_

He can’t even bring himself to be bothered by the lone queen bed that afternoon, snagging the room before the late afternoon crowd started and people headed in off the main road seeking shelter from the rain. It certainly sets the mood, Dean thinks. The day he almost gets his friend killed is the day the sky opens up to a potential flood scenario. Castiel stays in the car while he finalizes their reservation, keeping out of sight long enough to not let on suspicions or the fact that he’s still covered in blood. The patch Dean put on him could only do so much before they got into town, _anywhere_ he could stop for ten minutes and stitch him back up.

He sits Castiel on the toilet lid once they’re inside and their bags are sitting by the door, more interested in getting out a needle and thread from his medical kid than the pea green walls or the fact all the furniture looks like it dropped straight out of the fifties. It fits the typical roadside theme though, he guesses. Any other time and he would have taken notice, not when Castiel is hissing under his hand, looking all the bit like a pissed cat. “This wouldn’t have happened if that truck wasn’t there,” Castiel comments, eyes tracking the movements of Dean’s fingers, hands still struggling to remain still while he weaves the thread through the cleaned gash and pulls it closed. At least it isn’t bleeding, anymore.

“Yeah, well, I think we can pin the blame on both of us,” Dean concedes. Someone was bound to get hurt one way or another; it’s in the hunter’s handbook somewhere: at least one person has to suffer a grievous injury or else the job isn’t done. At least Castiel is taking it like a champ. “If we wouldn't’ve been standin’ around and one of us was watchin’ our backs, I wouldn’t be tryin’ to put your head back together.”

Castiel rolls his eyes but remains still, hands clutching the whiskey bottle in his lap while Dean works. “We also wouldn't be here,” Castiel adds, quiet about it. “We would’ve passed this town without a thought, or never seen this motel.”

It’s true. Tucumcari hadn’t even been on his list of potential places to stay, and Castiel never mentioned it on his extensive list of destinations. Yet it was the closest town with any sort of suitable lodging, especially at three in the afternoon when majority of the others hadn’t even opened their doors. But it’s a quaint little town, and outside of keeping Castiel conscious, there are probably other things to do. Shops, museums, a place for Castiel to use that cheapo camera he bought two states back. Maybe they can get the film developed, while they’re at it.

He finishes his work and leaves Castiel with eleven neat stitches across his forehead, wiping away the excess blood and dabbing Neosporin across it, earning a few hisses in return. “There, you’ll live.”

Castiel bows his head and rubs the back of his neck, thanking Dean and handing back the quarter-drunk bottle, wincing with the suddenness of his movement. Bruises mottle the back of his neck and shoulders from the impact, likely to turn spectacular shades of purple over the next few days; riding shotgun won’t be easy for a while.

They make it as far as the bed before they collapse onto either side, Castiel on his front with his head turned toward Dean and Dean staring at the ceiling, struggling to regain his composure. It’s been an hour and a half since they left Glenrio, and another thirty minutes since they checked in, and he’s still on edge. There’s no bloodlust left in him like with the Mark—now, it’s residual fear and self-loathing, the knowledge that he’s human again. Vulnerable, susceptible to emotions and _feelings_ and guilt, all of which come to a head without his permission.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks him in the lull of their conversation, reaching over to cover Dean’s hand with his own, thumb stroking over his palm.

Dean nods something of an affirmation and looks away; he can’t bear to see Castiel’s face, knowing that he let that happen. “’M fine,” he lies, and makes to sit up. “You gettin’ hungry?”

Castiel gives him a look, the stitches working to give him a third eyebrow to raise. “Dean,” he hisses, “I may not be an Angel anymore, but I can tell when you’re lying.” He lifts up onto his elbows and reaches across to touch Dean’s forehead, tracing over the cut marring his eyebrow, wiped clean just before he left to find a room. Blood still specks his eyelashes if he looks in the mirror hard enough.

 _What a sight we make_. “Shoulda had your back,” Dean manages, eyes closed. “I coulda fought it off, I wasn’t even _thinking_ —.”

“You _were_ thinking.” Castiel leans over to kiss his brow, Dean eventually turning to him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You were close, Dean. We both were. But one mistake doesn't mean you’ve lost anything.”

“I almost lost you,” Dean confesses. Castiel’s eyes widen; he blinks slowly, shaking his head. “I _did_ , Cas. I fucked up, and I’ll do it again. One more slip up like that and you’ll…”

“I’m not your sole responsibility,” Castiel mumbles, head lowered. “I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

Dean huffs out a laugh, the words bitter in his throat. “Well sue me for wantin’ to keep your ass around.” He sits up and rubs his eyes, catching his eyebrow and tearing the wound back open, enough to feel a drop of red drip down his lid. “You’re the only friend I got left, so _fuck me_ if I suddenly give a damn, alright? …I’m not _losin_ ’ you, not again.”

Whether Castiel takes sympathy for him or not, he doesn't know—all he feels is Castiel shoving him back into the white sheets of their bed, arms pinned to the side and the former Angel straddling his waist, their faces inches from one another. “I’m not your brother,” Castiel growls, and a shiver runs through him at the octave drop—evidently, his dick doesn't know the difference between being compared to family and a voice that could smite him if it wanted. “I’m hundreds of millions of years old, older than the dirt you walk on every day. I’m perfectly capable of handling myself, and if I’m to stay by your side, I’ll bleed, I’ll ache, I’ll _die_ , all for you. And all I want in return is for you to stand by me and do the same.” He lowers his head to just barely let their lips touch, Dean sucking in a harsh breath. “Do you understand me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Dean admits through an exhale—because this, this is everything. This is everything he wants that he’s scared to admit. _Castiel_ is everything he wants, and even without the lightning and wings to back it up, he’s still a powerful force to be dealt with. There’s power there, the will to survive in his eyes, the strength to fight back, even in the face of his own death—even as a human, he’s beyond intimidating.

And Dean _wants_ him.

Dean wastes no time in dragging Castiel into a kiss, tinged with desire and _need_ and nothing but clothing stopping them from attaining the inevitable. Fire burns a hot path through his veins at the harsh touch of Castiel’s hand to the hem of his shirt, nails scraping trails against his stomach in his efforts to rip his shirt from his body. “Let me—,” Dean stammers between kisses, clutching his fingers desperately into Castiel’s hair, “—get me outta these—.”

Castiel pulls off with a growl and helps yank Dean’s shirt over his head, afterwards following with his own, tossing them both to the end of the bed. Dean’s still struggling with his zipper when Castiel reinitiates their kiss, moaning into his mouth with the hand that strokes over the too obvious bulge in Dean’s jeans, cock twitching with the new attention. He really needs out of these pants—Castiel, too happy to comply, unzips his fly and helpfully drags them off his legs along with his boxer briefs, until he’s naked and at the mercy of a former Angel, now raging on hormones and pure, unadulterated lust.

He’s harder than he’s ever been in his _life_.

And Castiel _leaves_ him there like that, bare and sprawled out on the bed and grasping at air, as he leaps from the sheets to rummage through Dean’s bag for something he apparently _knows_ is there—and _how_ is a question for another day. He returns with a bottle in hand and tosses it to Dean’s hip, divesting himself of his own bloodstained pants along the way. No finesse, no show—he’s naked before Dean can even fully look him over, Castiel pinning him down for another kiss before something cold and _wet_ slips between his legs to glide over his hole, teasing.

On instinct he reaches down to grab Castiel’s hand, moaning into his kiss and pushing his fingers closer, one slipping inside to the first knuckle, simply feeling him out. “C’mon, get in there,” Dean pleads, not even bothering to hold back the want in his voice. He hasn't been touched like this in years, by someone who wanted more than just a hole to fuck, by someone who wanted _him_ , body and soul. He throws his head back when Castiel obliges, sliding the first slick finger inside fully, Dean’s hips riding back on it with urgency. “You want that, Cas?”

Castiel answers with a snarl, the pad of his finger finding its target and rubbing there mercilessly—his cock spurts precum from his incessant touch, Dean abandoning his hold on Castiel’s hand to grip the sheets, entire body writhing through it, hips fucking back onto the second once it slips in, working at his prostate until the need to come almost overpowers him. He grips the base of his cock and whines, begging, “Stop, _stop_ , I’m gonna—.” But not even the best of cock rings could have stopped him from striping himself white, his body seizing through the suddenness of his orgasm, back arched off the bed under the constant ministrations, until he falls back, fully expecting for Castiel to pull out and fuck him the easy way.

He doesn't, though—Castiel keeps fingering his prostate, up to a third now, his cock still valiantly twitching in the aftermath while his body complains, _he_ complains. He can’t stop himself from whining, one hand gripping Castiel’s knee, the other holding the wrist between his legs, halfheartedly trying to stop him. He comes again a minute after the first, and only then does Castiel let him go, the aftermath staining his chest up to his nipples, fully hard under his friend’s gaze.

Castiel takes advantage of it and closes his lips around one, Dean still squirming through the residual aftershocks; he palms his cock in sympathy, coaxing the last of his release from it and twitching from oversensitivity. Still, he begs, “ _Fuck me_ ,” and it’s only _now_ that Castiel decides to take his time, kissing languidly, _wet_ across his chest, hips arching into nothing, still chasing the fullness he craves. “C’mon, _fuck me_ , _Cas_ ,” Dean pants, practically whining when that tongue trails up his abdomen, licking away his cum and swallowing it down, kissing him once it’s gone, the taste mingling on his tongue. “Get your cock in me, _please_.”

“You’ll have to beg harder than that,” Castiel hisses into his ear, smirking. Dean shudders at the words, hole fluttering against the finger pressing there, rubbing circles against his rim. “Isn’t there something you’d like to say to me, Dean?”

 _So many things._ “Where—d’you want me to start?”

He gasps when Castiel flicks his unattended nipple, the sensation shooting down his spine; his cock, soft now, throbs with the need to fill again. “Tell me how much you underestimated me,” Castiel coos, smug. “Tell me how much you _need_ me.”

“Need you—oh _god_ , I need you,” Dean whimpers, toes curling into the sheets. Castiel lubes up his fingers again, pushing two past his rim, this time bypassing his prostate entirely. Still, he feels every inch of him, clenching around the digits with the need for more. “Need you— _oh, fuck_ —need you so much.”

“In what way?” Now he’s just being a dick.

He would roll his eyes if they weren’t too busy being closed. “Every— _every_ way. Wanna—Want you to stay, stay with me—oh _God,_ I’m gonna—.”

“Don’t come.”

Castiel pulls his fingers—three now—free and shoves Dean’s legs up towards his head, hooking them over his shoulders while he palms lube onto his cock. He feels even bigger than he looks, the stretch of him close to a burn when he finally pushes the head in, Dean moaning with every inch until he bottoms out, their hips flush, Castiel grinding ever so slowly into him. Dean lowers his legs then, Castiel holding him open at the knee and spreading him wide, his cock a half-hard mark against his hip, precum bubbling to the surface. If he manages to come again, it’ll be a miracle.

Castiel sets up a slow pace at first, letting Dean adjust to it, letting him buck back up to meet his thrusts until they’re moving in tandem, Dean clutching the headboard with one hand and the bed with another, Castiel gritting his teeth with the effort to hold back. They should’ve put a towel down or something—they’re going to ruin the sheets, not that Dean particularly cares, not when Castiel finally lets loose and pushes Dean’s legs back again, hands planted on either side of the stupid embroidered blue swallow and digging in, cock doing sinful things to his ass, abusing his already sensitive prostate even further.

At some point Dean starts talking, words static to his ears but absolutely filthy to Castiel’s, Castiel doing his damnedest not to break the bed with the roughness of each thrust until they’re both moaning with it, Castiel panting rarely heard of obscenities between breaths, eyes hooded and barely visible beyond the black of his pupils. He’s close now, Dean can feel it, the way Castiel’s hips stutter, the way his nails dig into Dean’s knees, sliding down to his thighs, pulling him in even closer, _tighter_.

Dean feels the ache in his balls start again, drawing up firm against him, cock hard in his hand as he fucks into his fist, trying to match his release. With a harsh shove, he feels Castiel thicken inside him, spilling hot with a guttural moan, mouth a perfect ‘o.’ Dean strokes himself through it, the slide of Castiel’s cock and the cum inside him giving rise to the pained pleasure that courses through him, thin streaks of white spilling into his fist, chest tight, body aching in the aftermath.

They rest with Castiel’s head on his chest and his cock still buried in his ass, both exchanging harsh breaths with one another, Castiel resuming their kiss once their hearts calm to a perfect rhythm. Dean winces when he slides out, praying Castiel has half a mind to get a washcloth before they dirty the coverlet anymore than it already is. “We should shower,” Castiel suggests, finally moving to roll over, draping an arm over his eyes.

“Easier said than done at this point,” Dean laughs. He’s going to have a hell of a time driving tomorrow, if the ache in his thighs is any indication. Castiel reaches over to slap his wrist, ending up lazily flinging an arm over Dean’s face. In retaliation he rolls onto his side and pulls Castiel against him, slapping his ass and earning a surprised yelp. “C’mon, I got cum in my ass and you’re gonna fall asleep if you don't get up.”

“You think I’d sleep after this?” He shivers at Castiel’s laugh, but falls into their next kiss, humming a happy sound. “What did I tell you about underestimating me?”

Dean smiles and pecks his nose. “Keep talkin’ like that ‘n I’ll do it a lot more often.”

 

_Grand Canyon, Arizona_

It’s nearing seven when they finally reach the park the next afternoon, and another hour and a half back to Flagstaff where they dropped off their bags earlier in the day. In no way was it anywhere near the mother road, but out of all the places Castiel had dragged him to without question, Dean finally had a suggestion of his own. “I’ve never gotten the chance to come here,” he says at a secluded part of the overlook, seated on the stone fencing with his legs hanging over, feet planted in the eroding dirt. Castiel sits beside him, contemplative with his hands folded in his lap, ankles crossed beneath his thighs on the wall, much the same pose he took at the other canyons they visited.

Meditating, communing with the earth; whatever it is he does, it looks dangerous.

“Y’know…” Dean starts, quiet. “We traveled a lot, slept outta the car most nights, ‘n we never really stopped by here. Didn’t do any of the touristy stuff, either.” He looks out over the canyon at the setting sun, yellowed rays highlighting the multicolored array of the gorge, warmth spreading through his chest at the sight. If only they could have stayed at one of the lodges in the park—he could wake up to this view, with Castiel at his back and the morning sun filtering through the blinds, the sound of silence in his ears. “Hell, we never went down Route 66 unless someone was being haunted or gutted along the way.”

At his side, Castiel remains silent, peaceful. If he were still an Angel, Dean would have sworn he was resting his wings. Now, he watches Castiel and listens to the echoes in the canyon, the far off shouts of someone rafting down the Colorado, the bird in the tree to their right, its wings flapping as it caws. “This is… If I could change a minute of it,” Dean says, hating how wistful his voice sounds, “If I could go back and make it so mom didn't die, if I could live any other life… I don’t think I’d do it.”

He expects Castiel to look at him; all he notices is the slump of his shoulders and partially opened eyes, glowing in the light of the afternoon. “I could be some corporate asshat or a rock star living from city to city in a tour bus… But that’s not me.” He lifts his head to the sky, the draining blue endless, just out of reach. A lone cloud disappears when he places a hand over it, grasping at nothing but air. “God, I hate how my life turned out, every fucking second of it. But… Is it selfish, to actually like where I am?”

For the first time in minutes, Castiel shakes his head, fully opening his eyes to the canyon before them. “I would have given anything to have changed your past when I raised you,” he says, low. “I would’ve gone before my Father Himself if that would’ve changed anything. Fate is something not even an Angel can alter.” He sighs through his nose, hands on his knees. “You would have been better off if you were in a more stable home, but you wouldn't be the man I see before me today.” Castiel reaches out to touch Dean’s cheek, Dean closing his eyes. “You wouldn’t be the same man that I love.”

His face heats from the praise, and a laugh bubbles up out of him, unbidden. Castiel practically glows when Dean kisses his palm, keeping eye contact the entire time. It’s enough of a response, for both of them; even in the presence of the love of his life, he can’t bring himself to say those three words, or any iteration. Still, Castiel understands and tugs him closer, kissing the corner of his lips, sliding over to leave a lingering kiss, softer and more thoughtful than he’s ever felt. “In time,” Castiel says, and Dean nods.

In time.

 

_Santa Monica, California  
Seaview Motel, Santa Monica Pier_

Somewhere around three in the morning, Dean wakes to the sound of a semi downshifting and the occasional car passing by the on Pacific Coast Highway outside, the lights shining through the window and illuminating the darkness of their room, not even the stark white of the sheets doing much to provide any sort of illumination. Castiel is still asleep, he notices, snoring at his back with an arm slung over his waist, pulling them flush together. _We’re here_ , he thinks, lips curled into a small grin. _And we’re not dead_.

In the arms of his former Angel, Dean turns his back to the scenery outside their window and strokes a hand over Castiel’s cheek, thumbing across his cheekbone and padding over his eye. Castiel wakes then, only somewhat, glaring across the dark nest of sheets and blankets until their eyes meet, barely visible in the abyss of their room. “You’re awake,” Castiel states, fighting back a yawn. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“I was,” Dean yawns right back, pulling Castiel back in tight, their foreheads pressing together. “Damn truck sounded like someone got shot.”

“Should’ve gotten something further up the coast,” Castiel grouses, but nestles closer, burrowing into their shared warmth. “It’s quieter, there.”

Dean agrees with a sigh and attempts to filter out the sounds of the highway, faling when Castiel speaks, voice smaller than he’s ever heard. “When we get the chance—I want to take you to my canyon.”

Dean opens his eyes enough to find Castiel’s face and the calmness of it, blue eyes closed to the world. “…You have a canyon?”

Castiel makes a noise that sounds reminiscent of a ‘yes.’ “It’s in Georgia. It’s covered in pines and maples and oaks, and there’s a river running down the middle. It’s beautiful in the fall, you should see it.” He pauses to breathe, the hand on Dean’s naked shoulder gripping him tighter, then releasing. “Humans named it Cloudland Canyon.”

“…And what’d you call it?”

“Home.”

The words pang in his chest, heart skipping. Never before had he even thought of Castiel remotely having a home, the Angel always wandering wherever the wind took him, wherever he was needed. Now, he lives at the bunker and drinks more coffee than necessary, and decorates his room with bells and too many four-by-six photographs from hunts and day trips around Kansas. If Castiel deserves anything, deserves one place to go where he feels like himself again, then Dean can give that to him.

“We’ll go,” Dean tells him, voice hushed, a secret between them. “We’ll go in the fall, and take Sammy and Claire, make a big trip outta it. How’s that sound?”

“I love it.” Castiel kisses him without urgency, his arm falling lax around him, breath evening out again.

In the morning, Sam will probably call him asking where he’s been the last few days and why he hasn't answered his phone. In the morning, they’ll either pack up to head back to Lebanon or stay in Los Angeles for another week. He’ll probably let Castiel guide them up the PCH all the way into Canada. He’ll let Castiel take him anywhere.

Outside, monsters are killing innocents. Outside, someone’s calling his brother to help dispatch a vamp nest or some creature he can’t even fathom the name of. But for now, he has an armful of Castiel in coastal California, and he’s keeping him, for as long as he can.

The world outside can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, here it is! I finished this back in late May I think and finally got all the kinks worked out. My present tense is still shit, so bear with me. Also, I wanna thank the ECKC for betaing and to relucant for helping me work out plot points and other stuff for this work and everything else. In case you don't know, I really love road trip fics.
> 
> I've also added a pinterest board with pictures [here](https://www.pinterest.com/zetsubounikki/spn-behind-the-clouds/), if you're interested~.
> 
> Title is from the Brad Paisley song, because Cars totally isn't one of my favorite Pixar movies and that song isn't my favorite on the sound track. _Totally_
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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